A Day in the Life
by Big Dumb Dummy
Summary: A soldier. A king. A pirate. A god. A man trying to outrun the wind, an ancient dormant evil unearthed. Every champion of Valoran has a story to tell. This is a collection of such stories, of glimpses into each of their lives. Rating will vary from chapter to chapter. Reviews and requests accepted and encouraged! Chapter 2: Yasuo
1. Chapter 1: The Chain Warden

**Author's Note:**

 **Hey everyone! BDD here. I've been a lurker on this site for a few years and decided to start posting my own content. Each chapter is going to feature a specific champion. I have no real narrative or structure planned, these are going to (for now, at least) be unrelated one-shots. This first story is rather dark, featuring a rather twisted character. I will try to make more of a variety; it all depends on what I'm inspired to write. If you have prompts or requests, please PM me! I'm always open to new ideas.**

 **Rating for this chapter is M for horror/torture.**

 **That's all I've got for now - thanks for giving my story a try, and don't forget to R &R!**

 **Enjoy :)**

* * *

 **Chapter One: Thresh**

 **This takes place before the fall of the Blessed Isles, when Thresh is still human and hasn't yet been transformed by the Mist.**

A man awoke again, and again he wished he hadn't. His wrists, raw and scabbed, were still bound by heavy chains, forcing him to drag himself about like a wounded animal. His back and sides were scarred and crusted with blood from wounds both old and new. The sharp gravel floor dug into his flesh, making even the slightest movement agonizing. His nails were blackened, cracked and ingrown. His hair hung in ropy, gnarled strands from his cracked scalp and ruined face, caked with dirt and gore. He huddled, shivering, against the low stone wall, surrounded on all other sides by thick bars that stood stalwart; silent sentinels in the oppressive dark. A pitiful moan escaped through his abraded throat, past sandpaper tongue and brittle, bloodied lips. Similar wails rang weakly from the darkness; a small comfort, a tragic unity. The murmurs faded quick; none dared risk drawing the attention of their jailor.

He cast his swollen, sunken eyes about his cell - small to most but to him his entire world. He had long since lost his sense of time. Time held no power here; just another tool in the hands of the Torturer, powerless before Him as all else was. With his butchering blade, He made every second last an eternity. In his absence, time poured through the cracks like water from a broken glass, making each bout of solitude between His "visits" pass in a blink.

The man spotted a small glimmer in the gloom. While he had slept, the shallow trough at the end of his cell had been filled. Filthy water and small, rotting granules of… something… were all that it held, a 'meal' not even fit for a hog. Yet he lapped it up ravenously, dragging his tongue through the dirt like a dog for every last shred of nourishment. He knew that days could pass before he received anything more, and fear of the punishment for leaving so much as a crumb behind far overpowered his revulsion.

Clang.

He stopped, suddenly, his entire being seizing up in abject terror at the sound.

Clang.

Again it rang, and again, and again, that hollow ring that heralded His arrival. The man dragged himself to the farthest, darkest corner of his cell. He burrowed, heedless of the razor stones, and prayed. Ice flooded his veins. His body trembled, humming with intense, fearful desire. Not me. He prayed to no god, to no celestial power. He prayed to the Warden - the highest power, the only power in his forsaken reality. He prayed to the Chains, that they may pass him by. He prayed to the Voice that it may fall upon another, that Its twisted laughter not fill his ears as pain becomes his world. He cowered and prayed and pass It did, leaving the same whispered promise It always did: soon.

* * *

Thresh hummed a tuneless melody as he walked slowly through the prison over which he lorded. He chose, this time, to leave his lantern behind. He did not need it; he had passed down this hall so many times he knew the way by heart. He found the light gave his prisoners hope, something they were not yet ready to receive. The mind is quite resilient, after all, and takes the most delicate blend of sensation to break. Give it hope too soon, and it may defy you for many days more. Give it too late, and it will have no effect, leaving the mind to crumble on its own and deny him the ultimate pleasure of watching it shatter in his hands.

Thresh understood this balance better than any other (having had many, many years to perfect his craft), and he knew that it was not yet time. No, he would wait, and when the time came, he would watch with glee the fleeting moment of light in their eyes, soon chased away by a darkness even more profound than before.

He let out a contented sigh as he opened the heavy wooden door, basking in the fearful symphony that greeted him. Bodies shuffled, voices groaned, and terrified eyes stared up at him, tempting him, inviting him to make them dance again with sublime, rapturous agony. He resisted the urge, however; he had a job to do, after all. For now, he could take comfort in the knowledge that each would get their own visit in time, and be given the attention they so dearly deserved.

Thresh grinned and renewed his humming, lumbering down the hall past his guests with renewed vigor. He made small gestures as he went - a rattle here, a whisper there - each deliberate and calculated, designed to bring every individual just a bit closer to the brink. They were not the purpose of his visit, though. Thresh reflected gleefully on the new addition he had made to his… collection. A visitor had come to the Aisles the day before, claiming to be many centuries old. He said that he had been cursed with long life, helplessly watching as everyone he loved and cared for died before him. His wife, his children, even his children's children - all died before his eyes. What delightful suffering! The man came to the monks begging to be allowed to die. They refused him, as was their way. They asserted that all life was sacred, and that he should cherish the curse, and treat it instead like a gift. They entreated him to stay with the Order and learn to love his life, and he had reluctantly agreed.

Thresh heard of this visitor and was unable to resist the temptation. He approached the visitor, telling him that he would guide him to the guests' quarters. Instead, he led the man down a secluded passage and strangled him into unconsciousness. It took an uncannily long time; Thresh was delighted to discover that this man's body was inhumanly resilient. This was likely a result of the curse. Oh, the opportunity! Thresh's body tingled with anticipation. He bound the man in chains and left him in his personal chambers, among the dissonant voices of Thresh's many beloved artifacts. He would tell them tomorrow that the man had left in the night, having been overcome with despair.

This was the reason for Thresh's visit; one of his oldest guests had expired, and he needed to make room for his newest. He collected the body and deposited it in the corner among the others. He loved the effect it had on the prisoners. He returned to his room to find the man awake. This pleased Thresh; he would take great satisfaction in watching his newest addition's reaction. The first glimpse of madness was oh so tantalizing.

He entered the room, and the man looked up with a start. "You, servant! Who are you? What is the meaning of this?" Thresh said nothing, instead grabbing the man's bindings and dragging him to the door, revelling in the sweet sound of the chains scraping the stone. He never gave any of the guests his name; names were power, and Thresh held all the power. He unhooked his lantern, opening the door and allowing his new addition to see his work in all his glory. Those inside recoiled at the pale light, blinding after having spent so long engulfed in darkness. He relished the way the man's face contorted in a delicious cocktail of shock, rage, pity, fear and sorrow. "What fresh hell is this!? You're mad!"

"Me, mad?" Thresh let out a raspy chuckle as the door thundered shut behind him.

"Quite likely."

* * *

 **AN: Whew! This one was pretty twisted. I was inspired to write it when I was reading a Reddit thread about serial killers. I've always found the idea of criminal insanity fascinating, and I thought it would be fun to try to write. Please let me know what you think! See you next time :)**

 **-BDD**


	2. Chapter 2: The Unforgiven

_Is a leaf's only purpose to fall?_

* * *

A lone cloaked figure trudged through the knee-high grass of the Ionian countryside. He stopped for a moment under the shade of a sturdy tree, drawing back his hood and shielding his eyes against the bright midday sun. He frowned, running his hand through his short black hair as he stared at the towering black clouds that loomed over the valley ahead of him.

The man looked down at his hand, and his frown deepened as he watched it tremble against his will. He clenched the haft of the blade at his hip until his bare knuckles turned white, forcing the tempest of sorrow and doubt that raged within him to subside. He closed his eyes and steadied his breath, calling to mind the sight of his brothers lying dead in the dirt. He steeled his resolve, opened his eyes, and stepped off once more towards the storm.

* * *

Yasuo knelt in the mud, gasping as exhaustion threatened to topple him. The tall grass whipped at his arms and back in the tempestuous wind, and the rain beat down on his head, dragging his hair towards the ground in thick ebon strands. How long had he been running? Why did they chase him? Why did he continue to run? Questions bounced around his mind unanswered as he sagged, allowing himself a moment of rest after days of constant movement. He leaned against the trunk of a thin tree that bowed in the storm, standing alone atop the grassy hill, the rest of the valley obscured by the downpour.

Yasuo's respite was brief, however. He forced his weary frame to straighten as he sensed a disturbance in the winds. With difficulty he stood, and turned to face the approaching figure. He saw a shadow in the haze, moving slowly up the hill towards him. Yasuo stood as still as he could, planting his sword in the dirt and waiting for the figure to reveal itself.

His steady breaths turned to shuddering gasps and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him as the figure's face was revealed. The black hair whipping lightly in the wind, cut short unlike Yasuo's own unkempt curtain. The crooked nose, broken by the hilt of his training sword in their youth. The moss-green eyes, in stark contrast to his piercing blue. The mouth that had smiled on him since the day he was born clamped in a grim line, and the sword he had sparred with on countless occasions now leveled towards his chest. The figure came to a stop atop the hill, and Yasuo found himself unable to speak, so great was his grief. Yone, his own brother, had come to kill him.

The brothers stood and stared for what may as well have been an eternity. Neither spoke; there was no need. The looks in their eyes spoke volumes more than any word ever could. Yasuo's were tired and pleading, gazing upon his brother's impassive mask with gut-wrenching intensity. To any other, it may have been impossible to glean any emotion from Yone's stoic facade. His jaw was set, his brow was creased, and his blade was held squarely ahead of him in respectful challenge. But Yasuo knew Yone better than anyone else. He saw the subtle pull at the corners of his mouth, the slightest crease around his hard, unblinking eyes. He saw the whiteness of the knuckles on his blade. His brother had always been in control of his emotions; the fact that Yasuo could see so much so plainly spoke volumes about the depth of Yone's pain.

Yasuo finally closed his eyes, resigned, and drew his sword from the earth behind him. The two men stared into each other's eyes once more, bowing and stepping off with practiced care, circling each other slowly. The wind seemed to swirl faster around them with every frantic beat of Yasuo's heart, growing so dense that it obscured everything else around them. Yasuo's consciousness was consumed by fear; not by the fear that he would lose, but by the fear that he would win.

Time seemed to bend, every second stretching unbearably long. Step followed step, always moving but never an inch closer, drawing a careful circle around one another. Neither blinked, bent, or even so much as twitched, except for their short, deliberate footsteps.

Finally, Yasuo saw a subtle shift in his brother's posture, and he knew what was about to happen. This had always been his brother's greatest shortcoming as a swordsman; he telegraphed his moves. He watched Yone's eyes narrow a fraction, and saw his foot plant in the ground just a little more firmly than it had before. By the time Yone had bent his knees, Yasuo was already lunging.

The fight lasted only an instant. A great, slicing arc of wind flew from Yasuo's blade as his brother doubled over, a gout of red painting the hilltop behind him as he fell. Yasuo threw down his sword, rushing to his brother's side. The tears that he had been holding back fell unbidden as he held Yone's head in his lap. "We are brothers, Yone," he choked. "How could my own brother think me guilty?" Yone let out a bloody cough, clutching the wound in his chest as he spoke. "The elder was slain by a wind technique, Yasuo. Who else could it have been?"

Profound understanding washed over Yasuo like a wave. It did not wash away the pain, but it cleared his mind. The sorrow and despair were still there, but now he understood. "I swear on the grave of our mother, Yone. I did not kill our elder." For the first time in far, far too long, Yasuo watched his brother smile. "I believe you." Yone closed his eyes, and Yasuo held him until he stilled.

* * *

Yasuo stood alone at the top of the hill, looking down on the shallow grave he had made for his brother. Yone's blade was planted in the dirt alongside the thin wisp of a tree that had somehow managed to weather the storm. He knew that his brother deserved better, but he also knew that he had no more time to spare. More would come, and they would find the corpse of Yone. But Yasuo was unafraid. He was finally free of the confusion and doubt that had hounded him over the course of his journey. Now, he had a purpose.

"I promise, brother. On my honor, I will find the one who slew our elder, and they will pay the price in blood."

With a newfound sense of meaning, Yasuo gazed out into the night. He would find the wielder of the wind technique, and their death would bring peace to the souls of his brothers. The ghost of a smile touched his lips. He had a purpose, and he had a lead.

A small breeze whispered over the hill, and Yasuo was gone.

* * *

Hey everyone! BDD here. Sorry for such a long wait, I've had a lot on my plate lately. Luckily, my life has calmed down, and I'm able to once again to return to writing. Many thanks to everyone who gave this story a try, and please remember to R&R if you enjoyed it. As always, suggestions are appreciated and encouraged!

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